Page 71 of Tell Me I'm Enough

She’s quiet, listening for a second, then looks up at me. “Tyler said, ‘What’s up, man,’” she relays.

I nod automatically. “What’s up?” I say toward the phone like he can hear me.

She covered the bottom of the phone with her hand for a second, muffling her words. “No, I’m not telling him that,” she mutters, then sighs and rolls her eyes, giggling. “You’re so annoying.”

Now I’m curious.

“What’d he say?” I ask.

She pulls the phone away from her face just enough to look at me. “He told me to tell you to keep an eye on me. Make sure I’m not getting into any trouble, as if I need a babysitter.”

I snort. “I’ve seen her fall off a table, dancing,” I say loud enough to try to get him to hear. “A babysitterwouldbe useful.”

She flips me off, and it makes me laugh at how serious she’s trying to make her face right now.

“Simone Sitter is my new title,” I tease.

She groans. “Don’t call it that. That sounds terrible.”

I suck my teeth sarcastically. “Too late. It’s already on my résumé.”

She goes back to the call, shaking her head, voice back to that soft tone, and I try not to listen.

The conversation seems to go from a happy tone to a serious one, and I watch Simone’s face drop a little by the end of the conversation.

“I know,” she murmurs. “I miss you too. Yeah…I’ll call you tonight after the Gamma meeting. Okay…love you.”

She hangs up and slips her phone back into her pocket, letting out a slow breath.

“Everything good?” I ask, grabbing another full trash bag and tying it off.

“Yeah,” she says quickly. “He’s just being…Tyler.” She shrugs it off. “Let’s finish, so Madison can release us from this torture.”

We go back to work, and I keep bossing her around, giving her a hard time about missing spots or being too slow, but every time something’s too heavy or too nasty, I handle it, not wanting her to do it.

“Can you grab that cup off that top shelf?” she asks, pointing up at a ledge above the TV.

“I feel like you’re always using me for my height,” I say, reaching up easily and grabbing it.

“Gotta get something out of this friendship,” she teases.

“Wow,” I say, playfully shaking my head. “Using me for labor. You’re just like my father.” The joke slips out before I can stop it.

She glances up at me. “Are you and your dad…close?”

I snort. “Yeah. Super close. We bond over him telling me everything I do wrong and constantly reminding me that he never wanted me. It’s a very healthy and beautiful relationship.”

Her lips part a little, like she isn’t sure if she’s allowed to laugh at that or not.

“I’m…sorry,” she says finally. “That sucks.”

I shrug, stacking up a pile of plastic plates. “It is what it is.”

We go back to silently cleaning, and I don’t like it. I like talking to her. I like knowing more about her.

“Doyouhave parents who love you?” I ask, trying to be funny and lighten up the mood.

She shakes her head, laughing at me. “Um, yeah…you could say that.”